Tiny Hat Chronicles
by Santai
Summary: At home with Holmes and Watson, during the days between cases. The undocumented view of the domesticity of their lives, showing just what can happen when such an ingenious mind gets bored. And how Watson manages to keep his sanity throughout. It was hard
1. Chapter 1

**Just so you know, these are a series of insane drabbles. Some will be cute and bromancy (i'm not so good at slash but some of them are written by Wessi who may demand some, but if you don't like i will notify you in the chapter intro so you don't have to read) but most chaps will just be insanity/vague crackfics. We [Wessi and I] just started have conversations which start "I just had an idea for an awesome drabble" and we decided to finally write some down. Please don't hold our crazy-and-out-of-charactier-writing-ness against us. they're just a bit of fun. Hope you like!! XxXxX**

Watson was sitting at his desk, trying his very best to concentrate on his patients notes. It wasn't going very well. It had been a long, trying day. In the fifteen minutes he had been sat at his desk, only three lines had been added to the half a page. His progress was not being helped by having Holmes studying himself in a mirror that he had set up there a few minutes after Watson had started trying to work. Sometimes he was sure the detective didn't want him to have a job. After watching Holmes scurry out of the room and return a moment later with Watson's top hat, Watson shook his head and stared at the paper, doing his best to ignore him.

"Do you think this hat looks strange to you, Watson?" he asked after a moment, modelling it for him.

Watson didn't even look up, "Can't you see that I'm busy Holmes?"

Holmes slumped a little and regarded Watson with a slightly tilted head, "Is there something the matter, old boy?"

The doctor scribbled something a little violently on his paper, "Perfectly fine Holmes," he snapped, "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," he replied, quietly, then set his features, "If you would please help me with this one thing then I shall leave you to your work with no further distractions. I promise," he bowed slightly.

Watson rubbed the side of his face and let the pen fall from his hand, "Fine, just a minute."

The detective smiled as he turned back to the mirror, "I am trying to work out why this hat doesn't look quite right."

"Just a suggestion, but could it be because that it _my_ hat," Watson commented, raising his eyebrows.

Holmes hummed tunelessly and then after a moment he removed the hat and placed it on Watson's head. He frowned deeply and took a step back. Watson sighed and waited patiently as Holmes studied him, looking up from under the rim of his hat.

"What goes into hat design?" he mused, reaching out and taking Watson's cane from where it was leaning against the wall, "Height, diameter, rim breadth," he used the cane as a pointer as he spoke then descended into muttering.

Watson sighed again, "Why have you suddenly decided my hat looks odd? Have you taken something this morning?"

Holmes was still frowning at the hat, his face set in all seriousness, "Really Watson, you believe all of my revelations are drug induced."

"That's because, more often than not, they are. Usually the result some damn dosage too big for your body to cope with," Watson grumbled then looked down at his work, expertly managing to keep the hat in place for fear Holmes would erupt in a tirade of annoyance which would only prolong his new interest.

Holmes blinked, "Too big..." he grinned then pointed the cane at Watson, "My dear boy that's it!"

Before Watson had time to look up again, Holmes had run from the room.

"Holmes! Where are you going?!" Watson called after him. But the only response was the door closing somewhere downstairs. After a moment, Watson's shoulders slumped, he sighed and removed his hat. Today was just not a good one.

It was almost dark before Watson finally heard the front door open and close and footsteps up the stairs. He laid his paper to one side and watched as the door opened. Holmes came through excitedly, Watson's cane in one hand and a large box under his arm. He grinned and handed them both over silently.

Watson took them tentatively, set his cane on the floor and holding the box on his lap, eyeing it suspiciously, "Is there something dangerous in here Holmes?"

"Would I do that to you, Watson?" he clasped his hands behind his back, "It's perfectly safe. I'm just curious as to your reaction."

Watson frowned then gently lifted one side of the lid and peered in. The frown deepened as he removed the lid completely, "Why did you buy me a top hat for a child?" he asked, lifting it out and holding it in one hand.

"Two corrections to your question before I answer," Holmes replied, taking the small black hat and studying it, "This is not a hat for a child, it is for an adult. A child's hat would be slightly bigger, as you could probably tell," Holmes demonstrated by only just being able to fit his hand inside the hat, "And second, it is not for you in the sense that I'm giving it to you," he drifted off and stared at the hat.

"Are you going to answer the question then?"

"Hmm? Oh right, yes. Well, I have noticed that you often become somewhat melancholy for reasons I'm not sure you wish to discuss. Today for example. So, I have been trying to come up with an idea which would improve your mood without forcing you to talk. It's been an ongoing project."

Watson was no more enlightened, "So you bought a tiny hat?"

Holmes smirked, "Because the revelation came to me while I was genuinely looking for why your hat looked odd. I shall show you, what I came up with. And I wager that I can bring a smile to your face."

Watson watched, confused but intrigued as Holmes placed the hat on at a slight tilt and raised an eyebrow. Watson regarded him for a moment, then sniggered. He looked ridiculous.

Holmes grinned, "Now you see. Tiny hats make everything better."


	2. Chapter 2

**Woo, second drabble! This one has been written by Wessi and is slightly more h/c than the last. Thanks Wessi! Go read her other stuff! Tis awesomes. Neeway. Hope you enjoy this one. The next will be slightly more insaney so savour the sanity while it lasts XD loves to all reviewers. We'd love to know what you think XD xXxXx**

The worst thing about it was the smell, the god-awful stench that clung to the heavy canvas all around them, to their clothes, to their hair, even to their skin. The heat of Ghazni in the midday sun didn't help, adding an element of body odour to the already nauseating scent of blood, and death. You never got used to it. Not even if you spent every waking hour in the stiflingly hot hospital tent, not even if you had been there for the past six weeks, before the sun came up, until after it had gone down. Not even if you slept there.

Watson glanced towards the entrance of the tent. Another three coming in. He looked around, seeing if they had any room, or any doctors for that matter. They didn't. He rolled his eyes. 'Bloody war…' He glanced at the man on the operating table. They could use his bed now at least. Poor boy, he only looked about twenty, it was ridiculous, the offensive they were on now. Half the soldiers weren't trained for this kind of combat, and the other half was dead. Still, it was in the interests of the empire, and their Queen. They had to continue. He called an orderly over.

'This one's gone, we need to clear the bed,' he muttered then sighed and moved on to the next bed, glancing over the man lying there. Nothing they could do. He smiled half heartedly at the man, 'Someone will be along in a moment. Hang in…'

Gunfire. Close. Too close. He ran out of the tent, looking around. They were under attack, everywhere was chaos, troops running out of their own tents, being shot down and bayoneted almost as soon as they were out. It was the first attack he had seen, terror coursed through him, flooding his mind with panic. He had no idea what to do, a brilliant surgeon, brilliant in the training sessions, a brilliant marksman, and he had no idea what to do. He should know what to do. He should be in control, if not of the situation, at least of himself. He breathed in deeply, then out, then in, out, in, out. He was hyperventilating, panicking, he couldn't breathe. Gunfire everywhere, people screaming, shouting, dying.

A man laid on the floor, a few feet from him, a splinter of wood from… somewhere, through his right thigh. He was stirring now, moving about too much. He was making it worse. Watson started towards him as he began to attempt to remove the shard. 'Don't!'

Holmes got up, he had never been one for spending the whole nights asleep. He wandered around his room, bleary eyed, still half asleep, searching for his violin, then… 'Don't!' .Watson spoke sharply in the next room, but from the panicked edge to his friend's voice he could tell it was not the usual vaguely irritated objection he was so used to hearing from the doctor. He went over to the wall he shared with his friend, and put his ear to it and counted three minutes. Watson was hyperventilating; his loud breaths interspersed with quiet, but still panicked muttering.

He had heard enough. He left his room silently, making sure his door did not creak as it was sometimes accustomed to. If it was a night terror he shouldn't wake his friend. That could be dangerous for both of them. He walked quietly into his friend's room, past the meticulously tidy desk, marred only by an open notebook filled with illegible shorthand, past the curtainless window and over to the bed. He watched the sleeping form of his friend. Aside from his irregular breathing, and occasional muttered words, he looked fine, but Holmes knew Watson better than that. The man was usually a sound sleeper, if there was any change to this routine, there was something wrong.

He touched the doctor's shoulder, still scarred from their last case. Watson reacted fiercely, swatting the hand away, shuddering. This shaking did not stop, instead becoming so violent the whole bed began to shake. Holmes breathed in sharply. He didn't know how to deal with this… He could make huge assumptions based on the mundane in real life, but he had no idea what his friend could be dreaming about that was so…

Unless… He was dreaming about his time in the army. That was… interesting. He would have to research this more… But for now? He placed his hands firmly on Watson's shoulders, and started to speak.

'You know, old boy, that was at least four years ago now," he spoke as calmly as he could, "Right now you're in London, which is possibly more traumatic, but obviously not as overtly scary… though you are in a room with me which could be equally terrifying. But I do hope not, I may be somewhat irritating at times, but I'm not likely to shoot you. I hope you realise that I have no idea if this is helping…'

Watson struggled violently against his hands, kicking and punching the air. Holmes moved quietly out of the way, narrowly avoiding a punch in the eye. He positioned himself behind his friend, and this time caught one of his friend's hands.

'Watson I'm not attacking you, I hardly ever do that, and when I do it's usually for your own good, or because I'm drunk… But I'm not _that_ drunk now. I am being completely honest with you as well, which I don't often do. You are dreaming.' He carried on, not saying much, just talking; trying to wake his friend without shocking him. He checked Watson's pulse. It was still racing, at least twice its usual rate.

Watson reached the man, and knelt beside him. He had completely ignored his warning, and his leg was now bleeding profusely.

Watson rolled his eyes, 'I did warn you,' he muttered, pressing the man's wound with one hand, tearing his shirt with the other. He wrapped the fabric around the man's leg, above the wound creating a tourniquet before rising again, looking around for something… anything else he could…

A bullet hit him in the stomach, knocking him off his feet. For a moment the world around him became bright white as he was blinded by the pain. Then he could see again, and it was worse. The stabbing pain in his abdomen blurred his vision, meant he had to concentrate harder to see. He was dying. He was sure of it. He no longer had the strength to stem the flow of blood from the wound. In his head he was already imagining what the bullet could have done; which vital organs could be torn, how that would kill him… But even through this there was something at the back of his mind. A reassuring murmur that everything would be alright…

Holmes continued to speak to his friend. The struggling had stopped, but the shaking had come back. Holmes was overwhelmed with the urge to stop it, no matter how he had to stop the shaking. He gripped Watson's hand tighter, but it made no difference. He put his hands back on his friend's shoulders… nothing. The shaking was getting worse. Watson's body was wracked with convulsions, Holmes wondered for a moment if there might be an underlying illness causing this, rather than simply a dream, but he dismissed the notion. Theorising was not helpful right now, he could do that later. He sighed. Only one option let. He paused for a moment, considering, before enclosing his arms around his dearest friend in a bear hug, constricting his movement.

They stayed like that for around half an hour as gradually the shaking stopped. A few minutes later Watson opened his eyes still breathing heavily, clearly still terrified. 'I… I'm in London? It's ok? Everything's fine?'

Holmes looked at his friend, somehow childlike in that instant, pleading, 'It is indeed old boy. Though I think you may have woken Nanny, so it won't necessarily be ok in the morning.'

Watson nodded, his breathing becoming steady. They stayed still for a few moments, before Watson pulled away, 'Holmes?'

'Yes?'

'What have you put on my head.'

'A tiny hat.'

'Holmes…. I…' he sighed 'fine.'

They were silent. A minute passed. Watson looked at the clock.

'It's morning,' He spoke quietly, sleepily.

Holmes nodded, and stood up, 'I'll go and see how cross Mrs. Hudson is that you woke her.'

Watson sighed, watching his friend leave.

'Sherlock,' He spoke just as Holmes was about to close the door. 'Thank you.'


End file.
